The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: A Memoir (24 page)

Kissing, Take Eight: Nobu

The page program at Letterman only lasted a year. In November 2006, my time was up. I was jobless and on my own again. Luckily Vinny, one of the Letterman security guards, also worked the door at a restaurant downtown. It wasn’t just any restaurant. It was the Tribeca location of Nobu, partly owned by Robert De Niro. Nobu was the most famous sushi restaurant in town.

“I don’t have any restaurant experience,” I warned Vinny.

“Bubbles,” he said (this was his nickname for me), “I’ve seen you bouncing around in your Letterman sweater. If you can look pretty in that thing, you can get this job.”

 

He was right. I was hired as a hostess in December. And of all my jobs in New York City, this one was the biggest window into the world, or at least a particular kind of world—one I was never supposed to be a part of. Going to Nobu was the opposite of going to church.

Any given night, five famous people were dining there. In fact, one of my opening duties was to take out the reservation sheet and highlight all the VIP guests.
Mandy Moore-VIP, Denzel Washington-VIP, Leonardo DiCaprio-VIP.
Weeknights it felt like everyone at Nobu was famous, rich, or some sort of politician. Bibi, Didi, Bobo, Pansy, Rock, Shack. Why is it that rich people always have inanimate object or baby names?

Weekends at Nobu were reserved for the tourists who’d heard the restaurant was the place to be and swarmed the entrance.

“Is there anyone famous here tonight?” they’d ask, leaning over the hostess table in hopes of getting a glimpse of a celebrity’s name.

“Just you,” we were instructed to say, before flashing a fake smile. In reality, by very virtue of asking the question, “Is anyone famous here tonight?” the asker had proved to us that they didn’t deserve to know.

My time at Nobu taught me a lot about celebrities. For starters, there were several different kinds: the young people who asked for booths in the front so that everyone would have to pass by them, the old pros who’d lounge in corner booths, and the reluctant celebrities who’d ask to be hidden in the back room. No matter what they wanted, business stopped for them. And for the most part, they expected this. I used to think there was a system in the world. Like if things didn’t work, it was because they were broken. But broken things were being fixed for celebrities all of the time. “Babe, could you be a doll and get us a table for ten in five minutes?” It was as if they needed to be treated like they were famous in order to believe it.

The remaining celebrities I mention will be assigned fake names. One incident in particular stands out. It involved a senator, a comedian, and a drug dealer; let’s call them Harry S. Truman, Lenny Bruce, and Al Capone.

Al Capone was a Nobu regular. His ruse was that he managed a hedge fund, but really he was a major drug dealer who was constantly hooking up celebrities with coke, heroin, or ecstasy. Whenever he came into the restaurant (always without a reservation), we had to scramble to give him the best table. Helping him always made me feel uncomfortable. Like I was assisting the devil in some contractual way.

One night I was working the late shift. We had a large table at the front of the restaurant where Harry S. Truman was dining with his friends. The senator—young, handsome, and charming—was sitting next to his date, a Martha’s Vineyard wealthy blonde. They were having a jolly time, making jokes and passing around saké, when Al Capone and Lenny Bruce walked in.

My first thought was,
What’s someone cool like Lenny Bruce doing with slime like Al Capone?

Just then the senator stood up. “Al, Lenny.” He raised his arms to greet them.

“Harry,” both Al and Lenny said. The senator walked over and the three hugged, fist-bumped, and buddy hand-slapped. They then proceeded to have a private conversation in front of the hostess podium and effectively in front of me.

“Meet my girlfriend,” the senator said, calling the blonde over.

She twittered over to them in her tiny heels, short skirt, and designer top.

“Hi, I’m Valerie.”

After she performed her duty, the guys continued catching up. Lenny Bruce and Al Capone were facing me. Valerie and the senator were facing them, which is how I noticed something they couldn’t see. As he talked, calmly, politely, Harry S. Truman stuck his right hand up the blonde’s skirt until he was fingering—practically fisting—her publicly. All the while, she smiled and nodded, like a petite puppet being controlled from underneath.

As I watched this—the senator, the blonde, Lenny, and Al—I was filled with a terrible feeling. Not just concerning me, but for the entire state of the world.

If the celebrities, politicians, and drug dealers are hanging out together,
I thought,
then the rest of us, well, the rest of us are properly screwed. We’re being fingered in public and we’re smiling like it’s a normal, everyday thing.

I swore I’d never go out with a customer. When you get to see behind the scenes, the VIP life gradually loses any appeal. But one night, a slow night, I think it was a Monday, I was working at Nobu Next Door when the private phone line rang.

“Thank you for calling Nobu Next Door, how may I help you?”

“I’d like to place an order to be picked up.”

I took out the to-go form. “First name?”

“Warren.”

“Phone number?” I continued.

“310-897-3993.”

“Great, Warren, what would you like?”

“Shishito peppers.”

“Uh huh.”

“A vegetable roll.”

“Uh huh.”

“An order of the miso eggplant.”

I waited for him to continue. When he didn’t speak I was worried I’d lost the connection.

“Hello?” I said.

“I was waiting for you to say ‘Uh huh.’ ” He used his higher register for the
Uh huh
so that it was clear he was mocking me.

“Uh huh,” I repeated.

“And one eggplant special.”

“Great. Your order will be ready in twenty minutes.” As soon as I hung up the phone I realized I’d made a major mistake. We were out of eggplant. He’d ordered two different eggplant dishes, and neither could be made. I hesitated before calling back. Three-one-zero, his number; it meant only one thing: The caller was from L.A., the area code of entitlement.

“Hi Warren, it’s Nobu Next Door calling. Unfortunately, we’re all out of eggplant, so we’re going to have to change your order.”

“You’re out of eggplant?”

“Uh huh,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” he shot back. “How about this,
little lady
, I know there’s a deli nearby, how about you run outside, get me some eggplant, and make my order as planned.”

I knew not to talk back to customers and I knew how to handle myself in situations like this, but something about Warren made me act before thinking.

“How about this,
little mister
,” I said. “How about you roll with the punches and we make a new order. How’s that for a plan?”

There was a silence. If there’d been a boundary, I’d clearly just overstepped it.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“No,” I calmly said.

“I’m friends with Nobu,” he said.

“Nobu’s very friendly,” I answered.

Warren let out a laugh. And like that, with that line, he was suddenly my friend.

“What’s your name?” he asked. “I like you.”

“Elna,” I said. “And your order minus the two eggplant dishes will be ready in twenty minutes.”

“I’m coming down there now. I want to meet you.”

“Take your time,” I shot back. “Dillydally along the way.” And with that I hung up the phone.

When the door to the restaurant swung open a few minutes later, I looked up and nearly died. Standing in front of me was an older actor I’ve loved my entire life, Warren Beatty.
What is Warren Beatty doing here?
My mouth dropped open.

I say Warren Beatty, but it wasn’t really Warren Beatty. Again, I can’t use the real actor’s name because I’d get sued, plus I found out later that he was married and way older than I thought—sixty-seven. What I will tell you is that the person who walked in wasn’t just an actor, he’s a writer, too, and he’s up there with Robert Redford, Paul Newman, and Jack Nicholson in terms of classic sex appeal, age, and fame. Also, my all-time favorite screen kiss, one that I’ve watched over and over again, belongs to him.

“I’m here to pick up my order,” he said.

Suddenly I made the connection, the to-go food, the asshole—it was Warren Beatty.

“Oh, great, yes, it’ll be up in a moment—” I sounded flustered.

“You’re beautiful,” he interrupted.

“Excuse me?”

“I said to myself as I drove down here, no matter how ugly this hostess is I’m taking her out.”

“Shoot for the moon,” I offered.

“What time do you get off work?”

“Eleven.”

“Meet me at B’s at midnight, it’s on West Twelfth Street.”

I already knew the location. The bar is small and so exclusive that three men guard the entrance. It doesn’t have a name either; people call it
B’s,
short for bar
.
Of all the bars in New York City, it’s probably the hardest to get into. If they say, “We’re having a private party tonight,” they really mean,
You’re not hot enough
.

The busboy walked up with a bag of to-go food. I passed it to Warren. “See you at midnight,” I whispered.

I wasn’t sure what I was doing but I had to follow this one through. There were so many things I wanted to ask Warren Beatty. And so, the minute work ended I took a cab home and reenacted the makeover scene from every ugly duckling teen movie. Bye-bye work shirt, hello short skirt and heels.
Adios
bushy eyebrows, hello foundation and lip gloss.

By the time I got to B’s it was already twelve thirty. As I approached the hidden entrance, I noticed that two blondes who fit all the right measurements were trying to talk their way in.

“It’s closed for a private party,” one of the doormen said. Getting in was going to be harder than I thought.

The girls tried anything from “Pretty pleeeease” to “It’s my birthday” to “We came in from out of town and it’s our one night in the city!” (followed by the pee-pee dance). I waited a few feet down the block for them to finish their appeal. My legs were shivering but I figured if I approached too soon, I’d get the same “We’re closed” response for the sheer sake of consistency.

Just as I was about to turn around, one of the doormen looked up and noticed me standing there. “Good to see you again.” He nodded in my direction. “They’re waiting downstairs.”

“Thanks.” I walked past the two girls and three men, down the five steps, and into the bar. I’d never seen the doorman before in my life. But I know the game—by watching the Nobu clientele I’d learned how to mimic the small nuances of exclusivity. There’s only one problem: If you can make it all the way inside, you’re in a room full of people who’ve mastered the same skill—which doesn’t exactly make for depth or good conversation. Which is why I only go to places like this for Warren Beatty.

When I walked inside I noticed him immediately. He was sitting with his elbows on the bar and his head was bent down over a drink. He reminded me of a cowboy.

I walked up to him. “Hi,” I said.

“You made it.”

So began our conversation. And by conversation I mean a real, legitimate, smart-people conversation. I didn’t act like a fan or a hostess. We talked about books, book-binding, pamphlets, brochures, paper. And it was great. He took me seriously, and as the conversation led from one interesting topic to the next, I looked around me at the hipsters and celebrity kids. It felt great to be in a room I typically classified as shallow and to swim deep.

“I used to want to be an actor, now I think I want to write,” I began. “But I can’t seem to do it. Was your first book a challenge?”

This is where the conversation turned. Warren Beatty didn’t answer; instead he put both of his hands on my hips and pulled me into his crotch so that he had his legs pressed against my sides. My eyes grew big. The oldest man I’d been out with prior to this was thirty-five. And while I didn’t know Warren’s real age, he looked to be at least fifty-five, older than my father.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Warren said.

I thought about it for a second. In the six years I’d lived in New York City I hadn’t touched alcohol once.

“I don’t drink.”

“Oh, come on,” Warren Beatty said. “I’m getting one.”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” He looked at me as though not getting a drink would personally offend him.

Before I realized it I was saying, “Oh, why not?” and shrugging my shoulders with a smile.

“What would you like?” he stroked my hand.

I don’t know the first thing about drink names.
Sex on the Rocks? Jack Frost? Pink-Eye?

“You pick,” I squeaked.

“I’ll have a whiskey,” he ordered from the bartender, “and a sweet wine.”

The sweet wine was for me. The bartender uncorked a bottle and set an empty long-stemmed glass in front of me. I picked up the glass. Both the bartender and Warren Beatty looked at me.

“I thought you wanted a drink?” Warren said.

Whoops.
I set the glass back down.
Drinking 101: Let the bartender fill your drink first.

Take two, I waited for the bartender to finish pouring, held the glass up to my mouth, sniffed it, because I’d seen people do that at Nobu, and took a sip.
Hmmm, not bad,
I thought, trying to hold back all the novice reactions my face wanted to make, including a slight choke when I got to the strong aftertaste.

“You like Yeats?” Warren resumed our conversation.

“Yes.”

“Have you been to Ireland?”

“No.”

“I could take you there sometime.”